Sixteen Hours and Three Long Years
by zampa-penna
Summary: Sherlock Holmes returns to 211B Baker Street, to the surprise of John Watson. Reunion!fic, non-slash.


**Hey! Thankyou for opening this fic, even if you soon realise it's terrible and you shouldn't be reading this rubbish. But I'm not saying that to put you off! **

**This is my first fic on here, and my first proper one with these two gorgeous characters. If you're feeling generous, please leave a review once you've finished! It doesn't take long, and the joy one gives is tremendous. So, uh, enjoy :)**

**Usual disclamers, etc. Sherlock doesn't belong to me, and never will. **

**_Birdie x_  
**

* * *

I sit at the table, surrounded by envelopes and photographs, evidence. The case wasn't hard, Sherlock would have solved it in a few seconds. My detective skills weren't so polished.

A hot cup of tea sits to my right. Steam curls off it. I struggle to keep my eyes open.

The case is going no where, I can see that. The poor man who was found dead in his bedroom by his mother, the unfortunate people who were dubbed suspects, the grief stricken relatives. I feel emotion for these people, I feel sad.

My eyelids feel heavy. It would be so easy to succumb to the temptation of sleep, but I promised. Detective Inspector Lestrade needs a verdict, if only a more detailed set of medical reports. So far I have nothing.

And then, there is a knock at the door, a quick set of knocks, but quiet. Hesitant, my mind supplies. Shaking my head to clear my sleep-deprived brain, I stand and go to open the door.

And as soon as I do, I wish I hadn't. I must be asleep, hallucinating in the least. I should have just ignored the doorbell. Because the man who stands in my doorway can't be real.

"Hello, John."

I've had hallucinations before, but none of them have spoken, to date. The voice, so accurate, so realistic. I could almost admire my head for such a realistic interpretation.

He's still tall, but the hair's shorter, much shorter, it's off his face now. The curls don't cover his ears. It's slicked to one side in an effort to be presentable, but the unruly mess won't stay. His eyes seem dead.

I take a step back, and he takes a step inside. This is new.

"Sherlock," I croak.

He just stands there. But he seems devastated. I haven't the slightest idea why.

I begin to seriously doubt my theory.

"I'm here John, it's me."

"Shit."

As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I realize I'm falling.

And then everything goes black.

My head feels like shit. My back is cramping, there's something cold and wet on my forehead. My feet are numb.

I blink slowly, trying to sit up. My elbows give out, and I end up on my back again. After a second attempt, a cool, soft hand rests on my shoulder.

"John, don't waste your energy."

That baritone, that contemplative voice-

It all comes back, like a flood. It's all I can do to not black out again. The hand moves from my shoulder, and soft footsteps tell me he's moved to the chair facing the sofa. I prop myself up, turning to look. The light hurts my eyes.

And then he's there. Like he was never gone.

"Oh god."

He smiles, as best as a Holmes can do. "My dear, dear Doctor Watson," he murmurs. "How I've missed you."

I sit up some more. I haven't spoken yet, I simply can't. How he expects me to speak, I have no idea. He could never understand emotions well. Something in my neck clicks, and I groan.

"I made you tea," he supplies, gesturing to the mug of muddy liquid on the coffee table. There's a biscuit next to it. It doesn't look even remotely hot.

I snort. "You turn up after three years - three YEARS, Sherlock - and you make me tea?"

I don't know why I'm angry. But now that I am, it makes sense for me to be so.

The bastard nods. The corners of his mouth curl up into a smile. He doesn't have a clue.

"Jesus, why?"

"Why did I make you tea? Well, that's obvious, really, since you seem to find tea to be relaxing and you tend to make tea to ease a situation so I thought-"

He's babbling, trying to hide his unease, trying to fill the silence he must not have foreseen. "Sherlock."

"John."

"Stop it."

"You asked for an explanation for the tea and I ga-"

"Who cares about the tea, Sherlock?" I spit, in exasperation. "Why did you leave?"

That comes out harsher than intended, it makes me seem angry, confused, broken. Faithless. The hurt is plain on his face.

"I-" he begins, but I cut him off again.

"And start from the beginning. From the top of Bart's." Good. That sounded nicer.

Sherlock sighs. He looks defeated.

"I don't want to talk about this now."

He stands and reaches for my tea, getting even colder by the second. Blue eyes make contact with mine, questioningly. I nod, and he takes a large gulp of liquid. The corners of his lips turn down in disgust.

"Sherlock," I say, as patiently and understandingly as I can manage. "The least you can do is offer me an explanation."

I'm this close to losing it, and he knows it. Sherlock rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, and I can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the man. He looks like he's been through hell.

"Molly helped me. She organized a fake body, supplied the blood."

"Except it looked like you?"

"Prosthetics, John." The way he says it makes me seem like a simpleton, with a flourish of his hand, as though it was obvious all along.

"Of course," I say, quirking my eyebrows. No applause from the audience here.

"And Mycroft was informed too, naturally."

Mycroft!

"But not me." It's hard to keep the anger from my voice.

"John," he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled, as though explaining his wondrous plan to a small child. "However much I wanted to tell you, it was absolutely essential that you were under the impression that I was dead."

"But why?"

"Moriarty had snipers positioned, to kill you-" he chokes at this, his calm demeanor fading. "You, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson," he manages to say. I don't press him to continue.

"So Moriarty was up there too."

Sherlock nods.

"And you faced him. Alone."

"I... I had to," he says. He knows I'm angry. It gives me a sour kind of satisfaction. Revenge.

"Without me," I spit.

He just nods.

"Do you have ANY idea? How this would be different?"

Again, a nod is apparently suffice.

"You would never had 'died', I wouldn't be on my own for three years, you wouldn't have been on your own for-" I stop. Realization hits. "Sherlock? What were you doing, for three years?"

Sherlock leans back into his armchair. His eyes meet mine. Blue, almost grey, meet brown. He's thinking, contemplating what he's going to say. From experience, I know this can take from one to thirty minutes, but I'm patient.

Eventually he parts his lips to speak.

"Jim Moriarty had a crime ring. A web that stretched right around the world. You probably remember my theories."

I nod.

"I took it upon myself to destroy his network."

He pauses. It gives me an opening.

"So you worked your way around the world, destroying a crime ring. Going against dangerous, possibly psychopathic, criminals." Sherlock does the smart thing, and doesn't say anything. "By yourself."

His lips part and his brow furrows, but I'm on a roll.

"You IDIOT."

"John-"

"I could have come with you!"

"Like I said-"

"You could have DIED."

"It was a risk."

"It was more than a bloody risk, Sherlock!"

"You thought I was dead for three years, I don't see how-"

I'm shouting now. "I died too, Sherlock. The moment you fell from that roof I fell too!"

That shuts him up.

"At least you came back! If you hadn't - I was THIS close to pulling out my gun, mate, and joining you in heaven."

I regret saying that as soon as it comes out my mouth. The facade he's kept up so far suddenly disappears from his face, and he looks tired. Worn. Broken.

"I am... so sorry, John."

I clench my jaw.

"I had no idea... no idea that you would be like... this." He stands. His eyes are red. I stand too, worried that he'll leave again. He walks around the coffee table and stands beside me. I don't look at him.

There's a gentle pressure on my shoulders, and I realize that Sherlock is hugging me.

I don't move. The floorboards seem incredibly interesting.

Eventually I feel him release me, and he walks away. Whether to his bedroom, or mine, or outside, I don't know. I don't seem to care.

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

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**Goodness me, you made it to the end? Fabulous! I have other parts to this story too, but they're a tad average and need revising. Although, if anyone's interested, I'll put them up. Thanks for reading, please leave a review! It would make my day!**


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